Earn Your Leathers
by Jay Rease
Summary: Up and comer Rachel Berry meets Mistress Q at Rivington's bar. Something smutty happens. Song fic to Heavy Metal Lover.  2nd fic in the Song Series.  Extremely AU


Title: Earn Your Leathers  
>Author: J Rease<br>Rating: M  
>Warnings: Graphic sex. BDSM overtones. Songfic. Extremely AU.<br>Summary: 2nd fic in the Song Series.  
>Author's Note: This song made me think dirty, dirty things. Let me say now, I don't know about the BDSM culture. I did minimal research for a oneshot and I hope I offend no one. Please, no flames. All mistakes are mine.<br>Disclaimer: I once disclaimed a fic with "I disclaim all fics forever…" or some shit so….

**Earn Your Leathers**  
>A prompt fill for the amazing, Molly ().<br>Song Choice: Lady Gaga's Heavy Metal Lover

The show is over. The curtains close, brushing single roses underneath its skirts and gathering mementos of praise fit for a vase on your bedside table. Another reminder; more motivation. It was your first lead. It was an off Broadway production, but you're grateful for the chance; you're humbled by the experience. You don't leave immediately after. You still have the bittersweet task of cleaning out your dressing room. You still have to say goodbye to so many people you probably won't ever see again.

It's late when you finally finish, roses wrapped and tucked neatly under your arm, lists of numbers to call for future auditions, agencies that are willing to take a chance on you for the stellar performance you gave tonight. You're waiting for Tina. She is still in the wardrobe department, cataloging designs she wants for her portfolio. She's been your best friend since college; your roommate since sophomore year at NYU.

You say hello, and Tina tells you that she's waiting for Brittany and Santana. That you are all going out for drinks since none of you have anything left to do now that the show is over. Moments pass before you feel the bubbling energy that is Brittany Pierce envelope you in a hug. Seconds later you see a scowl of acknowledgement from Santana. You give your things to Santana to put in her car, and she decides to leave it in the theater garage until tomorrow. And soon it is just the four of you—out on the town. Your wardrobe director, your choreographer, and your stoic cast mate; your dearest friends.

You haven't gone out for drinks with your girls in ages. It's Santana's turn to pick and she smiles sinisterly at her girlfriend before suggesting a bar called Rivington's. Brittany quickly agrees before assuring you that it's Thursday, a good night to be at the aforementioned dive. She even strokes your ego by telling you that you won't be able to disappear after you're famous. So you oblige. You cramp into the backseat of the taxi and talk about all the things you'll miss from the show.

The car gets quiet with a thick nostalgia then, memories distracting the celebration you are supposed to be having. When the cabbie barks back a total you're confused at your surrounds. You see the pink neon light from the bar at the end of a shifty alleyway twitch and blink out. Rivington's. Santana pays the cab and you all slide out into the alleyway, the screeching of tires reverberating in your ears. Santana and Brittany link pinkies, and you stare over at Tina, who shrugs and follows behind them. The first thing you notice at the entrance are the bikes parked out front. Harleys and hogs littering the only sidewalk you can muster beneath your heels.

"Are you guys sure about this place, I mean—"

"Hush it Rach, its fun, trust me—Britts and I would never show you a bad time."

She faces the bouncer and he lets her through, and he does so for you and Tina too. The bar didn't seem like much on the outside, but the heat waves wafting off the crowd writhing on the dance floor proved otherwise. The strobe lights disorient you momentarily, and the pulsing emphatic beats distort in your ears as you adjust to the electronic sounds of heavy metal. Tina has your hand as she follows behind your friends to the bar.

Four whiskey sours later and you're comfortable. Your cheeks are tingling and you've been laughing too much. Brittany and Santana have seemingly disappeared. It's like them to have sex in bar bathrooms, you don't worry. Tina is screaming over the music to the bartender, a young Asian guy with dimples whose nametag reads Mike C. The music makes your shoulders rock with anticipation for dancing. It's hot, you give Tina your jacket and walk into the throngs of people pushing and pulling against each other.

You start scanning the crowds, trying to decide if you should dance alone. Some people are bumping into each other; long haired people in leather jackets mimicking the electric guitar riffs coming from the speakers. You pull yourself through the linked arms, navigating through tiny openings between the spaces of excited partygoers. You browse through groups of people. There are so many women here, many of them in matching biker jackets, patches on their leather vests and links of metal hanging from their belt loops. You don't know what to look for in this kind of crowd until she's staring you right in the eye.

You can't tell how drunk you are, but you swear you scrutinize her from foot to face in slow motion. The music doesn't register anymore, and you can only hear your uneven breathing as you drink her in. Her black combat boots tie up all the way to her knees. She's wearing what looks like leather chaps cut off mid-thigh, red lace underwear boldly peeking from the opening at the crotch. She's has on a thick black belt, a short riding crop dangling from her left hip, silk handkerchiefs of different colors next to it. The corset she's wearing is leather too, the ties a crimson that matched the lace underwear beneath her shorts. Her skin is creamy, her cleavage tumbling over the hem of her top. She has on the same grey pearls as most of the women you see around the dance floor and the same patch with words you can't quite focus on. Her face is flawless. Her short blonde hair is tossed beneath a tilted leather hat, the diamond on her nose ring glinting against the flashing lights that blink her in and out of your line of vision.

She's not dancing. There are women and men flanked around her and she isn't paying any of them any attention. She is staring straight back at you, her gaze unwavering; her smirk a quirk of the corner of her mouth. If you were only so bold you go up to her and… well, you don't know. But whatever it is… you want just want to. You're a coward, so you rush back to the bar for a shot of whiskey—straight. Tina is still talking with the bartender, most of his patrons grooving on the dance floor. You slap the table for one more shot and you chance walking back to where you were without spilling any.

You see her in your peripheral. When you turn to watch her, you realize that she is putting on her jacket. The leather sits cool on her shoulders, adorned with patches that seem to match the miniature one on her corset. She tugs her hat lower over her eyes and she saunters away from the crowd that's gathered around her. You swallow the shot still in your hand and leave the glass on the table you've been standing by. You turn away as to not seem completely entranced, and you square your shoulders as you await her presence beside you.

It never comes. Instead, the smell of real leather invades your senses, and you'd be repulsed at the thought of dead animals if you weren't as intoxicated as you are… if she wasn't as intoxicating as she is. You cough at the bite the whiskey has left in its wake and you feel the fire engulf your veins and enflame your newfound resolve. You turn your head to the side, smiling as her cherry red lipstick and low hat identify her as the only woman you've ever felt this attracted to. Her toned arms wrap around your waist, a tickling of hair grazing your cheek as her whispers thunder louder than the music banging from the stereo equipment.

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this… on a Thursday night no less?"

You laugh. You feel her pull you toward her, leaning on the barstool at the table behind you. Her hand is dangerously low on your hip, and you feel the pressure of her fingertips pressing into an unknown erogenous zone.

"What's that supposed to mean_, a girl like me_?"

Her laugh is sultry and thick, hazy like the sounds voices make after sex. She chuckles into your ear until it turns into a growl, her other hand coming to rest on your other hip, her fingertips forcing you to sway along with the rhythm of her canting hips. The music is a blur of noise and pulse, it's an afterthought when she is pressing your hips together, the grinding forcing you to find the melody in heavy metal—her voice making your legs tremble despite how comfortable you feel against her.

"You know…vanilla. You're not flagged, so what kind of fun are you looking for tonight?"

You're still tipsy. It doesn't take a lot to get you hammered, but the amount of adrenaline pumping through your veins makes you lightheaded. Your hips are still undulating to some distant rhythm, and her hands are trailing lower. You realize then that you don't know what she's talking about. You don't want to seem completely jaded, so you answer with a cockiness you didn't know you had.

"I'm looking for the type of fun that requires your active participation."

You're glad she can't see your face. You're glad your verbose nature pulls you through the slurs and stumbles of intemperance. You feel her smile against your ear before turning you around, wrapping her arms around your waist again and linking her thumbs into the belt loops of your jeans.

"Oh, really? I'm not sure you can handle my lifestyle little one."

You feel invincible staring into the fierce confidence in her hazel eyes.

"Well, I'm sure you're underestimating my sense of adventure then."

She tugs on the collar of your shirt, bringing the fabric towards her before kissing you. It's not rough, or heated, or needy. It's slow and gradual. It's languid and you feel pressure building in your belly and the slick of your underwear as she kisses you. She has your chin between her pointer and thumb finger, and she doesn't let you move your head until she's done. When she pulls away, she asks if you came here alone and you tell her you have to get your coat from a friend.

She lets you lead her back to Tina, who is now accompanied by Brittany and Santana, who look satisfied after a quick bathroom romp. Tina hands you your jacket and turns back to Mike. You dismiss the knowing look Brittany gives to a smirking Santana before turning away. You don't have time to think twice about where you are going, but you let the leather clad blonde lead you to the exit. The bouncer hands you a small black card, you fold it without reading it, tucking it into your jacket pocket as you tug it on. You follow her to the bike racks outside. You're never adventurous. But you want to be with her. She gives you her helmet, and she puts on shades, nodding toward the seat for you to get on the bike. You're less drunk and more buzzed, you feel happy everywhere and something tells you that this is okay. You get on the bike and you wrap your arms around her waist, resting your head lightly on her back.

The rev of the engine purrs through your body like a strumming hum of buzzing energy. Your thighs quiver around the cab of the motorcycle, the hum of the engine vibrating against all the perfect parts of you. You squeeze your hands around her midsection and you flip the shade of the helmet up before she pulls off.

"What's your name?"

"I'll tell you later…"

"I'm Rachel."

She turns her head forward and you pull off.

_**I want your whiskey mouth,  
>All over my blonde south.<br>Red wine, cheap perfume,  
>And a filthy pout. <strong>_

After you use the bathroom, she offers you a drink before sitting down beside you on the couch. She's just as gorgeous in the clarity of her apartment as she was in the bar. You wonder if the whisky will mingle well with the glass of wine she's sat in front of you, and you inhale the scent of her personal space as she peels off leather boots and tosses her jacket over the back of her recliner. She has on this infinite loop of music that is thrashing low against your eardrums, bold lyrics ingraining themselves into your memory; to get stuck there after the night you're about to have.

She looks sexy, sitting in front of you, shoes off in cut off leather chaps, trailing her hand up your leg and letting it fall back to your knee. Any touch seems enchanting, and you find yourself static, clinging to her every move with the synths beating lowly in the background.

"So what's your name?"

"My name is Quinn… but you're not allowed to address me as such."

You giggle as her hand settles on the skin between the waist of your jeans and the bottom of your shirt.

"Why can't I address you as such?"

A phone rings from some other part of the apartment, and she excuses herself to answer it. You take off your trench coat, the plain, folded black card falling out of your coat pocket. You pick it up; remembering the flyer the bouncer handed to you on your way out. Your eyes drift over the words slowly, the warm of your alcoholic bliss less temperate as you reread it:

Leather Play Thursdays… Biggest BDSM leather party in all of NYC

It takes time for you to realize what it means. What you implied in a slightly buzzed state back at the bar. Your heart picks up, you can hear the blood gushing through your veins, and you're biting your lip when she sits back down.

"My name is Quinn, but tonight you call me Mistress Q."

You clear your throat. She's only dressed in her corset and chaps, and she's sitting in front of you, dragging long on a cigarette. You still hear the music in the background, and your mind drifts momentarily—suddenly sober.

_**Tonight bring all your friends,  
>Because a group does it better.<br>Why river with a pair?  
>Let's have a full house of leather.<strong>_

You went out with your girls, the night was supposed to end in a few drinks. You suddenly wonder if Tina went home with Mike, and if Santana and Brittany stayed there; it dawns on you that they both frequent the bar and things seem to fall into place as you shake your head dismissively. You've never been interested in things like this. She's sitting there, looking at you with low eyes and a sultry smirk. You bite your lip and your curiosity pangs.

"It's my first time...doing this. I don't know the rules."

She laughs, stroking your leg again, distracting what's left of your inhibition.

"I can't teach you all I know… I can let you have it for one night. You can consent… and decide if you want to return tomorrow. You earn your worth here."

You gulp. You don't know what you want. She's dangerously seductive, every breath of her renders you needy, and you wonder if she's casting spells—or if there is any alcohol still in your system.

_**Dirty Pony, I  
>Can't wait to hose you down.<br>You've got to earn your leather,  
>In this part of town. <strong>_

"You get to slave for me tonight. You belong to me until tomorrow. And you will do as I say, how I say. But you need to be sure, you need to be able handle…anything that might happen."

You're quiet. You don't know if you should have reservations about this. You know nothing about this. But you're curious. You want to let her do what she wants, and you need to know all she'll do. You agree. She immediately stands up, and kisses you, and you make your way through hallways and wind up on her bed, your legs wrapped around her waist. She stands up, backing away from you to go to a wardrobe across from her bed. She leans against it, and clears her throat.

"Tonight you are mine. Nothing you own is yours. Remove anything that isn't skin."

You're insanely aroused, the authority in her voice tames the remark that falls to the tip of your tongue, but stalls. You pull at the buttons on your shirt, and you wiggle out of your shoes and pants. Something in her stare dares you to try disobeying her. You turn your back to unclasp your bra, but she stops you.

"Face me. And take it off. All of it. There won't be another warning."

You feel cold flush over your burning skin, and you turn to face her as you let the scrap of lace fall off your shoulders. You have to roll your wet underwear down your legs, the dampness sweltering against the valleys of your thighs. She looks over to you, her face unchanging and you gather the scraps of clothing and put them on the chair beside her closet.

_**Dirty pearls and a patch,  
>For all the Rivington Rebels.<br>Let's raise hell in the streets  
>Drink beer and get into trouble. <strong>_

The song thrums around you. You get it now, the patches, the bar. You smirk to yourself.

"Your first mistake, Rachel, is assuming you're in charge. You submit and you oblige. Tonight you belong to me. You're cockiness is your first offense. You don't get the luxury of furniture. On your knees."

You scramble down in front of her before your mind makes communication with your body. You just want to please her. You want to do as she tells you and it's exhilarating and the ache clinches in the bottom of you around nothingness. She lifts a leg onto the bed in front of you, and she pulls the red lace underwear briskly to the side, flashing the damp pink flesh of bar skin; forcing the smell of her into your nostrils. The music seems to have been muted beneath the pulse you hear in your ears. It drifts into the room slowly, repeating the beginning of the song that never seemed to end. _**I want your whiskey mouth,  
>All over my blonde south.<strong>_

"Kiss me here."

Your lips find the bundle of nerves throbbing beneath her fingertip, and you pucker you lips around the nub, sucking lightly but not adding tongue.

"Use your whole mouth, Rachel. Make me cum…"

You stiffen at the bite in her tone, and relax when you stroke slowly over her clit. You bury your face into the bend of her parted legs and you lavish in the sweet tang of what you're feasting on. You lap at her with everything you have, and she crashes against your chin and falls away from you—panting. You don't know the rules to these kinds of things, and you stay still as she composes herself on the bed beside you.

She stands and walks into your line of vision, toying with the lock on the wardrobe across from her bed. She opens it, and you inhale sharply. There are weapons and chains and ropes and gags. You notice the whips hung on hooks and paddles made of leather, heavy and worn. You see her looking over things, picking things up and putting them down. You see simple things like clothespins, and difficult machines you can't decipher uses for.

Your heart is beating bizarrely in your chest, the pulse remnant of the music still crawling through the open doorway. You see her pick up a long thick paddle, leather that looked soft and thick, aged and well versed. You have no doubts that whatever happens, you'll take it. No one has ever dominated you this way, and the wet oozing down your inner thighs is evidence to the state of your body— on edge. She grabs the leather paddle and closes the wardrobe. She stands in front of you with a hand cocked on her hip.

"You must be disciplined. You will take ten. You will count them. You lose count, we start over."

You mutter a "Yes Mistress Q," and nod in again in confirmation. She orders you onto her bed, all fours, ass up. She stands beside you, clapping the flogger in her palm.

"You turn around, you run away we start over. Understood?"

She promptly smacks the flesh of your bottom, the sting bitter in the wake of surprise.

"One, Mistress Q!"

She waits a moment, and you hear the leather cut through the air as it falls against your bottom again, this time harder.

"Two. Mistress Q!"

You choke it out, and continue. You get through without messing up. Eight catches you off guard. Nine has you trembling, and you find your arms buckling under the weight of the pain. Your ass burns, and the lower she hits, the closer she gets to the engorged flesh of your exposed vagina. You anticipate ten will topple you over the edge. It seems like eons before the leather hits you even lower, the sting of wet flesh burning tears into the corners of your eyes.

"Ten, Mistress Q."

You whisper it. The pain hurts enough that you want to cup yourself and rub the burn. But you don't. Because through the pain still spikes your arousal. Nothing has ever gotten you this wet, nothing has ever had you begging for more. You've never felt as alive as you felt that moment.

Until you feel her tongue on the sore parts of your pink flesh, where the flogger hit too low and your clit is throbbing.

_**Whip me, slap me, punk , funk.  
>New Yor clubbers, bump drunk.<br>Bud Lite, liquors bars slam,  
>Move it this is your jam<strong>_

The song still pumps on loop. You're heady with such euphoria as she laps at your clit, her nose pressing into you delisciously. Her mouth is moving over inflamed skin, easing the ache of the pain with the tension of your surmounting climax. You're whining, and suddenly her fingers push inside you and fill the spaces that spasm with need. You're afraid of the feeling growing inside you at first. Your bottom still hurts when she slaps it, hard. You cry out, but the hooked finger she pumps inside of you makes your arms give out.

Her thumb rubs your clit as she strokes into you from behind. You're pushing into her hand, and you feel her other hand pinch at your nipples between your parted legs. You bite your lip from crying out and you arch your back. You feel the bottoms of your feet burn, and you stiffen against her hand as the muscles around her fingers vibrate, squeeze, and contract. The mantra of the song playing on your own lips:

_**Ooh ooh ooh Who who who  
>Who Who who ooh who who<strong>_

When you've finished convulsing, she pulls away from you and forces you back to the floor. She shoves her fingers into your mouth and you suck them clean. She smiles at you for the first time that night, and she looks behind you to something you don't turn around to see.

You feel weak. Your legs are wobbling from your perch at her feet, you're exhausted, you're sore, and you want with everything you have to lay on the bed and drift off. She has other plans as she pulls out her rope and ball gag. There is no fear at what she has planned, you're bruised but sated nonetheless.

"Turn around"

_**Wash the night, with St.J-ameson  
>Like a baptism, Heavy Metal lovers Play<br>Baby we were born this way**_

You are never adventurous. You don't do things without thought, you don't detour from set plans. Yoru a logical person. But the tone in her eyes and the pounding your heart is still beating tell you that it's fine.

So you oblige… you oblige.

End.

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